


Black

by Jazline



Category: The Man from UNCLE
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25687993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jazline/pseuds/Jazline
Summary: In that "netherland" between unconsciousness and waking, Illya mulls over the color black.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Black

Black was the overwhelming sensation shrouding Illya Kuryakin as he lay still.  
  
This blackness was... welcomed.  
  
In the ethereal netherworld surrounding him at the present time, the Russian languished in its non-feeling.  
  
His mind floated to his recent past, trying to sum up what led him to this insentia. He had been... uh ... where had he been? He tried wading through the haze of this darkness to figure out what had happened.  
  
Kuryakin remembered being hurt. Badly hurt. The kind of hurt borne of a parcel of time with Thrush. The beatings. The yelling. The constant threats. The hunger. The isolation.  
  
All gone.  
  
He now felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. Complete blackness. Warm , comfortable blackness.  
  
Hmmm. He liked black, as he recalled. It was his ‘color’ of choice. Inwardly he would smile at people’s reactions to his black attire. Some found it boring, lacking imagination. Others found it threatening. Many found it sexy.  
  
Yet there were those who felt it matched his mood, his disposition. Black. Bleak. Lackluster. Humorless. Purveyor of doom and gloom. No-nonsense.  
  
But those who knew him well disagreed, knowing that there was a depth to his character and emotions unseen my most. And there was... is... a sense of humor.  
  
Illya merely found wearing it convenient. Less decisions to make. Utilitarian. Substantial. To him, his mode of dress made perfect sense. And it traveled well.  
  
More blackness now, more endless time floating through the nothingness.  
  
During the short periods when the synapses connected and thoughts could be made, Illya wondered if he was sleeping or drugged or dying or dead. He soon discounted the concept of ‘dead’ - no way he could conjure up thoughts in that state.  
  
_Concentrate, Illya, concentrate!_ he forced himself to think. He began getting fidgety. _Where the hell are you?_  
  
Nothing. Blackness still. As hard as he tried, nothing entered his dark, silent world.  
  
_You can’t fight it, Kuryakin,_ he mumbled to himself.  
  
He drifted off again, for Lord knows how long. Minutes? Hours? Days? It did feel good, this nothingness. All the pain he had endured gone. He finally resigned himself to being in limbo and decided not to fight it.  
  
Until he heard a soft sound...  
  
...a voice?  
  
Words? Yes, definitely words. Illya couldn’t discern each and every one, but they were definitely words.  
  
He could feel his heart rate increase, his breaths quicken; a sign of life.  
  
But... whose voice? In his blackness he tried concentrating on the words - their tone, their timbre - derive any meaning possible to figure out his circumstances.  
  
“ ‘... Wolf Ber had....gotten used...living as a thief...’ ”  
  
The words faded in and out, making no sense at all. But the voice saying those words was soft, friendly. Familiar.  
  
“ ‘In jail, far from...other prisoners...’ ”  
  
The sounds went on and on, finally jelling into cohesive sentences.  
  
“ ‘His father, a pious man, had been a house painter. His mother had peddled tripe and calves’ legs. He, Wolf Ber, was the only member of the family to become a thief...' ”  
  
Someone was reading to him.  
  
Then the voice stopped.  
  
_Don’t stop!_ Kuryakin silently demanded. _Keep talking, dammit!_  
  
Then Illya moved. Or rather, someone moved him. Not much, though. Merely a shake or a nudge.  
  
“Illya?” the same, familiar voice asked. “Illya? Can you hear me?”  
  
The blackness was lifting, finally. Regrettably?  
  
The Russian grunted quietly in acknowledgment of the voice.  
  
A few more gentle shakes, then a few more words to wake him... but the prickly Russian would not open his eyes.  
  
The reading continued.  
  
“ ‘Over his vest a watch chain dangled, with a little spoon to clear out ear wax attached to it. Other thieves carried guns or spring-knives, but Wolf Ber never had any weapons on his person. A gun will sooner or later shoot; a knife will sooner or later stab. And why shed blood?... ‘”  
  
Silence again, followed by another nudge.  
  
“Illya! Wake up.”  
  
“Gnmff...” was the only sound Kuryakin could produce.  
  
“That’s better, now. Come on... try opening your eyes...”  
  
_Who are you???_ Illya screamed inside. _Keep talking to me!_  
  
The blackness lifted a little more with the speaker’s prodding.  
  
The surface beneath him moved slightly. It was soft. It felt a little like someone sat down next to him. A bed?  
  
Hands were on his shoulders, his face.  
  
“Come on, partner. Keep trying...”  
  
_Partner... partner... partner?..._  
  
“Focus on my voice, Illya. Listen to me...”  
  
Kuryakin’s head swam, still trying to wade through the remaining blackness surrounding him. Only one person would call him ‘Partner’ - Napoleon Solo.  
  
The Russian tried opening his eyes, but they would not respond to his mental commands. Nor would his hands move, nor more than a grunt escape his throat. He had to let his partner know he was coming around, that he wasn’t dying or dead.  
  
“I’m here, Illya. Stay with me, OK?”  
  
A short silence followed, then the talking continued... friendly, comforting, inviting.  
  
“Focus on me, my friend. Listen to my voice.”  
  
The Russian sensed a little more of his presence.  
  
“You’re safe, Illya. We got you back to headquarters in one piece. The doctors promised me you’ll be back on your feet in no time at all.”  
  
_Back on my feet? How bad...?_  
  
“You really had us all worried. You looked so awful when we found you. But you came through with flying colors, and your prognosis looks great.”  
  
Another short silence and a readjustment of weight on the mattress disrupted the dialogue.  
  
“I think you’re entitled to a well-earned vacation after all this. You know... we haven’t gone away for ages. Whaddaya say we plan a few weeks somewhere warm and sunny when you feel better. Oh wait... you don’t always like warm and sunny. Hmmm... well, we could plan to go somewhere cold and dreary. I hear Manchester, England, this time of year is so cold and damp it seeps into your bones. On the other hand, that might not be too good after all you’ve been through. Don’t sweat it. We can talk about it when you wake up.”  
  
The gentle sound of something being moved... something light... cut through the remaining blackness. The weight on the bed readjusted, then the voice continued.  
  
“ ‘Coming home this time, Wolf Ber had bought a pair of gold earrings for Celia from a jeweler in Lublin, and for his daughters, Masha and Anka, two medallions. Until Reivitz, the last station, he had traveled by train; then he had taken a carriage wagon, sitting up front with the driver and helping him drive...’ “  
  
The dialogue continued for quite a while longer. Illya had no idea exactly how long Napoleon had stayed, but the comforting voice never ceased, easing him back to consciousness. Clarity finally broke through the remnants of the black haze and the Russian was able to speak.  
  
“Isaac Bashevis Singer?” he croaked in a soft whisper.  
  
Napoleon stopped reading and squeezed his arm. His smile was the first thing Illya saw upon wakening.

FINIS

  
Excerpts in the story were from:  
  
Singer, Isaac Bashevis. “The Brooch,” _The Séance and Other Stories._ Farrar, Straus & Giroux, NY, 1964, pp 224-225.


End file.
